Versions of Darkness
by Foalshan
Summary: I get a kick out of Disney movies. All of those stories could be SO angsty, if someone read it right. I'm rewriting some passionate scenes from a variety of those movies for my own personal enjoyment. Probably not for the kiddies.
1. Ariel

At night, the deck was cold and slippery beneath her feet. The wind whistled eerily and tangled itself in her dress, billowing it out around her thin frame. At the rear of the ship, she could make out the lines of the mountains behind them, massive and looming in the distance. Storm clouds rolled in from the sea and abutted them, forced to spend their fury against the cliffs instead of continuing on to the towns beyond. Streaks of lightning lit the very peaks of the clouds, blooming purple and green like beautiful, electric flowers.  
  
Ariel watched the clouds for a few moments, blurred by the burning salt dripping down her cheeks. Superimposed over the horizon was the image of the prince, wrapped so contently around his bride-to-be, soundly asleep in their bunk. She shouldn't have gone in. But she had. And now look at her.  
  
What should she do? She'd bargained one life for another, her love for the sea for love on dry land. But...as her beloved sisters had reminded her over and over...nothing was certain. She hadn't won his love. She'd never even been able to compete. So what now? She couldn't stay here. She couldn't live in the sea. She took a few more wobbling steps toward the rail, hair whipping frantically around her and catching on her wet cheeks. Her feet- her slender, lily-white feet- were numb from cold. She could almost feel the comforting fins where they should be, ghosts of what had been. One hand clutched at the rail to keep her wracked body from collapsing. The other covered her mouth, but it didn't matter. She would be silent anyway.  
  
"Lady?" a man called. His voice was coarse and burly- the voice of a sailor. Ariel turned haltingly and searched the darkened deck for him with haunted eyes.  
  
"I'm here, lady! Up!" and so he was. It was the lookout in the crow's nest. She cast her face up to him, struggling with more tears. She had met this man before. He was a nice man.  
  
"Wot- lady, ye look white as a sheet! Wot be th'matter?" He had to shout to send his voice past the wind and the distance between them. Ariel watched him quietly, unable to respond and unwilling to. She didn't have any energy left. She didn't have any life left in her. She lowered her eyes and turned back to the rail. Stiffly, with icy fingers, she gathered her blowing nightgown in her fingers and held it bunched against her hips. One foot wedged in the stylized wooden lattice; then another.  
  
The lookout called to her again. This time his voice was sharp, with fear and with warning. Ariel swallowed hard and took the final step onto the rim of the rail. She held tight to the length of wood from which was suspended a single, lonely lantern. Its stability held her there, perched above the cold, cold ocean below and the yawning black sky above. She felt so small.  
  
The lookout wasn't calling to her anymore. Now he was calling to his mates, shouting furiously for help, for anyone to come.  
  
There was no REASON left. It didn't MATTER anymore. No one would help. She cried soundlessly down to the sea, begging her sisters to come for her, or her father, or ANYONE who still cared.  
  
The icy, frothing ink said nothing to her in response. Nothing.  
  
She released her dress. Breathing hard through her nose, she forced herself to drop one arm from around the wood. Heights were TERRIFYING; she'd never had to deal with them underwater. They were a dizzying challenge presented only on land; she cried as hard now with fear as she did with heartache. But it had to be done. Sooner or later. It had to happen.  
  
"Ariel?"  
  
She twisted from the waist to see him, alarm ringing through her mind. He looked sleepy and confused, draped in only a white cotton sheet around his waist. He'd come out in response to the lookout. His eyes sharpened on her, lost the hazy quality of sleep and narrowed suspiciously.  
  
"Ariel? Get off that. You could fall." He was a prince now, doling out commands in a not-to-be-argued-with voice that no one could ignore.  
  
She let her vision wander over his tousled black hair, his flame-bright eyes and his pale, flawless skin. You're the reason I came, she told him. And you're the reason I'll leave.  
  
"Ariel, NOW."  
  
She let go.


	2. The Queen

It was storming the night the mirror spoke true. No lightning, no thunder interrupted the continuous pounding of the water on the ground, nothing to interrupt the darkness that blanketed the forest.  
  
Stony and deathly still, a massive castle of rough gray walls and soaring turrets broke through the roof of evergreen; hulking; a mountain by the hand of man. Drenched, ever-ready gargoyles dripped rainwater tears from the tallest heights of the towers.  
  
The moon glimpsed the ground so briefly through the flowing clouds- streaming in intermittently through crystal windows and glass doors. Deep in the depths of the castle, the moonlight filtered through ivy-covered openings...and cast cold, cold light onto the face of a woman ruined by a lifelong search for beauty.  
  
She stood as straight and tall as a pillar in the grand ballroom, clad in red silk and tulle. Her hands were long and thin, and her fine hair was straight.  
  
Before her was propped an elegant oval mirror with glass as clear as thin air, reflecting not her own visage- but the face of a ghost...a man long-since cursed into the confines of lifeless wrought gold and gem-chipped flowers. His eyeless face was tight-lipped and sober as he faced the ordeal to come.  
  
"My lady," he greeted her, solemn as a painting, as a sculpture.  
  
"Mirror," she returned.  
  
They contemplated each other, the weathered wisp of spirit in the mirror and the woman before him, all long limbs and classic features and eyes to numb a person's soul.  
  
"Mirror, mirror, on the wall..."  
  
They had danced this tragic dance countless days before and could conceivably dance it countless days again. But tonight, the mirror...had a secret...  
  
"...Who is the fairest of them all?"  
  
She was stately, regal, with an air of forced calm. Darkness coiled in her stomach as she awaited his answer, as it always did with such an address.  
  
Over the past days, weeks, years...his answers came slower, and with less conviction. And with each new breath it took him to reply, with each lost note of admiration, of enthusiasm...she felt something vital shrivel and curl inside her.  
  
Today, the face of the ghost in the glass- said nothing. His sightless eyes looked at her for a long time, traveling her perfect features, her shining ebony hair and white skin. They traced her winged brows, her perfectly carved collarbones, drifted over the flames of madness in her colorless eyes.  
  
"What have you to say in response to my query?" she whispered. No matter how she spoke, her voice always seemed so low...so gravelly. The voice of the damned. It felt as though it illuminated the ugly taint she bred in her heart.  
  
HIS voice was low and smooth- the voice of a djinn, a lost soul, trapped forever and all time behind a plate of glass. Always looking in to out.  
  
"My lady," he said. That was all.  
  
The silence grew deafening.  
  
"Speak." she ordered.  
  
"SPEAK."  
  
But he was quiet as the grave.  
  
"SPEAK TO ME, DAMN YOU!" she screamed, all the fury roiling beneath the surface erupting to the forefront. Her clutching hands found his stand and gripped it with white knuckles.  
  
"My lady Queen, you are no longer the fairest of them all. There are...there is one, the fairest now, who shall eclipse your vanity as surely as the sun casts shadows on the jealous, torrid moon- "  
  
Her cry echoed throughout the vaulted ceiling. Bats lit, crows mantled wings of oil rainbows, the vines braided to the glass quivered with fear.  
  
She cast the mirror to the floor in an act of wild defiance. The face in the glass shattered, skittering thousands of countenances over the icy marble floor.  
  
She was no longer beautiful. She was a wretched, broken thing, a cast-off doll with tears in her eyes. She lost whatever humanity she had left; her dark thoughts turned black. They turned to murder.  
  
"I'll kill her..." she hissed.  
  
A pillar of onyx and alabaster, she stood tall and sylph-slim in the massive granite ballroom that was the heart of her castle.  
  
"...Snow White."  
  
As they say, ugly...is to the bone.


	3. Cinderella

GONG  
  
Her head flew up, or as far up as it could fly tucked under her partner's chin.  
She jerked back and blushed when she saw the questioning look on his face. "I- I'm sorry. I just...heard the clock, and- "  
  
He smiled at her, and it was the smile that made her feel like everything would be all right.  
  
"Don't be afraid. It's just the tower bells. They're loud but they won't hurt you. Shall I have them stilled, if it would ease your discomfort?"  
  
GONG  
  
But to his dismay, she only grew more agitated. She thrust her hands against his chest until he loosened his grip and stumbled away from him. Her shoes were giving her trouble, it seemed.  
  
"Please- are you well? What can I do?"  
  
She swallowed hard and cast her eyes to the clock. It was huge monument in the castle's courtyard, complete with massive, stylized black hands and an eerie yellow face.  
  
"I- I- please excuse me!" she gasped. Panic flooded her body, numbing her fingertips and rushing energy to her limbs. She turned away from her partner and bolted for the ballroom.  
  
People scattered about the stairs from the balcony parted before her, muttering about manners and the youth today. From outside the grand ballroom, she could faintly make out another  
  
GONG  
  
"STOP!" a man's voice ordered. It was sharp and forceful, but not angry. She pushed through a tangle of young women casting her dirty looks and moved as fast as her voluminous white gown and crystal shoes would allow.  
  
"STOP, NOW! LADY!" he shouted, but he was half a crowded ballroom away and she was moving so fast- a slender crystalline butterfly, winging for the door.  
  
"Herald! Detain her!" he ordered across the room. From the corner of his eye, he could see his parents rise in alarm at the steel in his voice and the young lady fleeing from his sight.  
  
"My son!" his father commanded. "What has happened? Have you offended the lady?"  
  
GONG  
  
It seemed to the girl on the stairs that the gongs were coming faster. Which was that? Fourth? Fifth? The stairs! Finally!  
  
She was forced to push her way past a bony figure in black silk- her stepmother- and two beautiful young fillies in velvet and tulle- her sisters.  
  
The stairs were steep and red-carpeted, plush to her tall heels. A hand on her arm and she almost fell- but it was the herald, ordered to keep her. She twisted one ankle painfully and was forced to abandon the delicate slipper that had nearly caused her fall.  
"My lady, please, I must ask- "  
  
She twisted away from him and he ripped her sleeve with his grip. A soft gasp echoed over the mass that had paused in its revelry to watch this scene unfold.  
  
GONG  
  
"Fifth..." she whispered as she fumbled past the man. Behind her, the young women requesting his attention parted reluctantly as her suitor attempted to follow her through the crowds.  
  
What if she didn't make it? What if her godmother's magic wore off...right here...it was terrible to think. These elegant crystal chandeliers and spectacularly arrayed people casting disgusted eyes down on the ragged, sooty child in their midst...  
  
She took the downward stairs two at a time and burst into the flagstone courtyard perilously fast. Guards blinked at her in confusion, this fine, distraught creature fleeing so quickly from the ball. More than one brought his weapon to bear behind her to perhaps PROTECT her from her plight.  
  
GONG  
  
The gleaming white carriage had already pulled up on the road; snorting moon-colored horses arching swan necks in their fury to be off. The doorman accepted her into the carriage and latched the door after her, and the driver cracked his whip. The stallions guiding the makeshift vehicle threw themselves forward-  
  
GONG  
  
The men-at-arms straightened when they caught sight of the young men who had come running after her. They'd lay no hands on HIM, this night or any other.  
  
"Gateseman! Close the gates!" the young man snapped. "By the order of the Prince!"  
  
She heard him, over the screech of the wheels and the screams of the horses; she heard what he said. One hand flew to her mouth.  
  
"Prince?" she gasped.  
  
Craning her neck around the carriage window, she caught sight of his strong frame at the bottom of the stairs, braced with anger. In his hand, he held something small, something so delicate- something glass?  
  
GONG  
  
And they were at the gates, the massive, black iron gates groaning closed so slowly- did they have enough room?  
  
She threw herself forward in the carriage and looked out of the window on the opposite side.  
  
"Driver, please HURRY!" she pleaded.  
  
"Yes, my lady," was his unhurried response.  
  
Closing, closing, they were so close, but it was CLOSING-  
  
They made it through with inches to spare. The horses squealed with fury as the metal loomed in at them and galloped all the faster when they cleared it. The metal of the spokes crunched as it grazed the bottom of the gate. But they were clear.  
  
GONG  
  
She sat back against the seat of the carriage and breathed a sigh of relief, for the moment, at least. All they had to do was get back to her family's castle- a long drive, even by carriage. Even longer on foot, which was what she'd be doing in a few more strokes of the clock tower.  
  
GONG  
  
The Prince twisted away from the damn gates and ordered the nearest dozen horseman after the carriage.  
  
He watched with mounting anger and cold confusion as they scrambled to the ready to follow. What had he done? Had he offended her, the shy little thing so new to his court? Had he scared her? Her behavior had been so erratic...he wanted only to catch her, to hold her until she stopped trying to push away, to find out what had happened...  
  
He twisted the delicate slipper in his hands and pressed it to his chest. He would find this woman, if it took him the rest of his life.  
  
GONG  
  
The court had resumed its merrymaking since he had darted out to stop his lady. When he arrived on the top of the steps, level with his parents' platform across the ballroom and above the rest of the court, much attention was directed up at him.  
  
He held up the shoe, the flawless crystal figure that was his only clue.  
  
"I will give money and land to whomsoever can find the owner of this shoe. Someone must have known who she was. Bring her to me."  
  
GONG...  
  
And somewhere in the wilderness around the castle, cold and dark and damp and unbeknownst to the men flooding out of the castle in pursuit of her, Cinderella sat unkempt and alone and surrounded by rats. But she was happy. 


	4. The Beast

"Please, sir, have you- "

He closed the door in her face. If it was a 'her'. The hunched shape in scraps of sack; oily hair and wrinkles; patterns of dirt covering every visible surface; could have been anything. Could have been a wild animal in clothes. He snorted at the idea.

"Filthy beggars. I'll have none of it," he muttered, helping himself to another glass of mulled wine. He shied from TOUCHING them- how should he invite them in for food and drink?

Another rap, like the knob of a cane being knocked against the iron frame of the door. The Prince lowered his goblet to the table and made a face at the window. It was cold outside, and he was comfortable by the fire. "GO AWAY!" he shouted, but that door was thick. He wouldn't be heard. Besides- the rapping persisted.

The pewter hit the table with a crack that begged gentler handling. The Prince stomped to the door, irrational irritation building towards his late night visitor.

Delicate iron ivy had been wrought into the frame of the door and it scratched him as he pulled the damn thing open.

"WHAT!" he snapped.

"Please, sir. I am hungry and lonely- I have traveled for many days. Would a little food and company pain you so? If I must- I could repay you." The beggar let the query's end hang, allowing the Prince to apply his own interpretation.

"Don't be DISGUSTING." he fumed. "I have no use for your stories or your company. You are not welcome here. Walk on." The door was too heavy to slam, but he put his strong young back into heaving it shut. Inexplicably, it stopped a few bare inches from the doorjamb.

The beggar had put her walking stick through the doorway. Through a hand span of space, the Prince saw the woman raise her head from the ground. In a withered, sun-tanned face, her eyes glowed like unholy coals.  
"Such a beautiful face," she whispered to him, voice barely audible. "Have you no such beauty inside of you?"  
A swift kick of his leather-booted foot took the cane out of the jamb. "Such is not for you to judge, hag. Be off with you. Before I set the beasts to run you away."

And the heavy oak barred her from his world once more. At the table, the Prince hefted his goblet and reflected upon how very small it seemed. He abandoned it in favor of a swig from the decanter.  
"AH- so much- "

A thunderous crash shook the room, followed by the troubling tinkle of breaking glass. When the Prince whirled around, he found the delicate ivy door bent and knarled on one hinge and surrounded by a bloom of crystal shards. In the doorway stood a woman...a glorious woman, with swirling black hair and eyes like lightning. She wore the old hag's scraps and carried her walking stick like a wand.

"YOU," she snarled.

The Prince was taken aback. His legs gave out at the sight, and he sank to his knees on the floor before her. "Old- old woman?" he gasped. The sorceress before him was as beauteous as any woman whose attentions he'd cultivated in the past. But her face...her face was frightening. It was twisted with fury, with retribution. With hate.

"You have nothing to say to me," she hissed. "You had your chance- you could have helped me- you COULD have SAVED me-  
And yet you did nothing!"

The Prince faltered. "Kind lady, most...wonderful lady...please. I had no idea you were who I see you now are- "  
"IT DOESN'T MATTER!" she raged. The room seemed to darken with the force of her fury. "My face decided my fate- now let yours choose for you!"

The young man cowered away, slicing his hands on broken glass and fumbling desperately for something to hide him.

"Wait, please! I'm sorry- so sorry- anything for you-" he whispered.  
The wind that blew from the outside in grew stronger. It knocked glasses and cups from the tables, opened shutters and cabinets, threw apples and knives to the floor. As it brushed past the witch, it gained color, and light- it gained a life of its own-

The very first thing it caught was the young Prince on the ground. He shut his eyes, bit his lip, tried to prepare himself for the agonizing death she had devised for him.  
The lit wind shimmered like the aurora, kissing his fingers, his eyes, bathing his body. And where it touched him, he changed...

The wind moved on. It passed through the doorway, snaked into the halls, searched rooms, draped beds...and things changed.  
What had been the Prince opened alien eyes and looked up to the woman above him.

He tried to form the words to ask her what she'd done...and his mouth didn't cooperate.

"Hhhnnrwhhh..." he growled. Growled? But he had always been so eloquent.

"Grrhrrrhunhhh..."

The sorceress smiled with bright triumph. Colored smoke drifted back to her and settled about her feet.

"You wicked, wicked boy," she murmured at last. "Be punished. Show the face your beauty hid- and be damned by it."  
He listened with one ear. His hands...they felt clumsy, warm, and unmanageable. The hands he'd always been so skilled with.

"RrrrRrrRRrr..."

But they weren't hands anymore. When he lifted them to the light, he saw dark fur and long claws. Like he was wearing hideous animal-gloves...

"Let this be my last 'gift' unto you, beautiful fool," he heard. "A single rose...caught now in its prime, plucked from your very own gardens. As you live, it will wither- as will your hope for redemption. When the last petal falls, your fate seals. Stuck with the face of a beast and the heart of a man; let your own vanity bring your downfall!"  
She turned away, and her magic seeped away with her. In the doorway, she stopped- at his broken garble for attention.

"HOW to lift the curse, I'm sure you ask?" she leered, as silky and venomous as she had been wild and vicious.

"Find someone who'll love you for what beats beneath your wretched skin."

Her laughter echoed in the empty, quiet halls of the castle for a long time after. It was dispelled only by the primal, wild roar of the Beast...


	5. Aurora

The baby in the cradle was pink and very chubby. It burbled sweetly when the young Phillip peered down at it.  
  
From above the pink flounce that was the resting place of Princess Aurora, his father laughed jovially with his friend, the King. "Look all you like, my boy!" he roared. He had long since abandoned his wineglass and now took swigs directly from the bottle. "In another fifteen years, she's aaallLLLL YOURS!" and then he and his friend gave in to drunken fits centered on the pronunciation of the word 'fifteen'. The queen, prim and elegant and stately, rolled her eyes and beckoned for little Phillip to come to her. When he did, she helped him to smooth a strand of flyaway brown hair.  
  
"Such a handsome little man," she cooed. He leaned into her cool, gentle hands. He liked the Queen- she reminded him faintly of his own mother, whom he could barely remember.  
  
The next face to peer down at the baby belonged to her very first godmother- the faerie Flora.  
  
She was slender, short, and pixie-like; her skin was as pink as a rosebud and covered with sparkling diamond dust. She wore wreaths made from flowers and ribbons of ivy, and her own glorious red hair. Her elfin face was shining with happiness as she watched little Aurora wiggle.  
  
"Sweet princess, sweet child," she whispered, and her voice was high and light. "Receive unto thee this gift I bring: beauty and sweetness, and skill with all things born of our mother, Nature." She left a dewdrop kiss on the baby's forehead and received a tug on her hair. She extracted the lock from Aurora's sticky little hand (because all babies are perpetually sticky).  
  
Next was Fauna, a sleek leopard-spotted thing with tiger-eyes in her hair. She leaned over the crib and tucked a soft spotted rabbit fur around the baby. It squealed with delight and grabbed handfuls of the fur.  
  
"Aurora, light of the night sky, jewel of your parent's eyes," Fauna said to her, like the purr of a great cat. "Receive unto thee MY gift: wisdom, and grace, gifts from all things wild." She, too, left a kiss, more of a gentle nuzzle. She ran her long, fey fingers over the child's face, lulling it to sleep.  
  
"Soundness, little girl."  
  
The last little face to appear was perhaps the most special: her third and final godmother, the faerie Merriweather. She was a most important creature; smaller and more lissome than even her beautiful sisters, she had skin of deep, cool blue. Pale clouds rolled over her exposed arms and legs, and her brilliant eyes flashed like lightning. She was as volatile and as peaceful as the summer sky. Stars and glass raindrops shimmered in her long white hair.  
  
As she watched the sleeping girl, she said nothing. She could feel tension somewhere, like the electricity she felt before a storm. It was building, building, centering around this tiny, helpless girlchild.  
  
"Caution," she warned her, as she turned her face so slightly toward the center of the conflict she felt-  
  
And, to the astonishment of the King and the Queen and of Phillip and his father, a storm did arise from the spot Merriweather watched. First with heavy dark clouds, bursting from thin air, followed by streaks of white lightning and rolls of deep thunder. The wind blew the flames all to pieces and put them out, gleefully smashing things along the way. As darkness lay upon the gathered courtiers and a terrified hush stole over the ballroom, a queer, sickly yellow light threw sharp relief onto the people ringing the storm. A ball of gaseous flame floated in the air...and beneath it, a figure melted onto the floor. It hardened, smoothed, and solidified, and became a little girl.  
  
Not so little, perhaps. Barely fifteen, with ebony hair and skin the shade of white that comes without sun, eyes like the stormy sea and bloody red lips. She wore a voluminous black gown encrusted with gems and gold, the very decadence of which seemed almost a sin. She was smiling.  
  
"Your majesties...and what's this? A new little addition?"  
She cocked her lovely head at the bassinet.  
  
The Queen released Phillip and pulled him behind her. "Maleficent," she gasped, and it was a gasp of fright. "I- we- you are here..." she seemed at a loss for words.  
  
But young Maleficent wasn't. She turned her dazzling, in-control, not-quite-sane smile on Aurora's beautiful mother.  
  
"WHY am I here, your majesty? When I so clearly did NOT receive an invitation?"  
The pixies bristled by Aurora's cradle. "And you wonder why?" Merriweather hissed at her.  
  
Flora stiffened her back and watched the dark faerie from beneath a veil of curls. "It's because you aren't wanted." she finished.  
  
Maleficent seemed genuinely startled. "Not wa- " she began. "Oh. I...I see. Because you are...afraid...of me."  
  
"No, no!" the Queen cried, throwing herself in front of Aurora's cradle. "It must have been- a simple oversight, is all- how silly of me- "  
  
"Oh, please, no. I understand eXACtly what happened, have no fear. In fact, to demonstrate to you my goodwill, I will leave your new child a gift as well."  
  
Horror filled the Queen's face. "Please, she is my only child..." she breathed. But Maleficent would not be put off.  
  
"Receive this tribute I so bring, little girl! For it is a very SPECIAL tribute..."  
The light flashed and people screamed. The three faeries took up defensive stances about the child, but they were not strong enough...young Phillip brandished his small belt knife at the dark lady who held the attention of the floor.  
  
"On the eve of her sixteenth birthday, your child..."  
  
"Maleficent, NO!" the Queen sobbed.  
  
"Shall prick her finger upon a spinning wheel..."  
  
The fluttering of bird wings echoed in the darkness above the court's head, combined with the flickering green light and the malevolence in the faerie's voice.  
  
"And DIE!"  
  
She began to laugh, then. She laughed at Aurora in her crib, wailing from the pain that her curse had caused; at her mother, crumpled in a little heap before the cradle; at the faeries, watching furiously, helplessly as she faded back into her storm; and at the great irony of it all. Her laughter was the last to leave.  
  
Panic and chaos filled the ballroom, chaos the guards and heralds were hard-pressed to control.  
  
In the midst of the disorder, purity like a cool summer breeze wafted to the cradle, and Aurora's salvation beheld her once more.  
  
"I can save her." Merriweather whispered. 


	6. Tink

LOOK AT ME! she screamed, but of course he heard nothing. She zipped around his head, forced her light to scream and spark like a miniature sun, but still he looked away.

I'M HERE FOR YOU! she cried. FORGET HER! I'M ENOUGH!

Nothing.

In her all-consuming hate and fury, Tink sent one final arc of light at him and bolted from the room before he could scold her for burning him. What was WRONG with him?

Hadn't she always been there? Much longer than that foppish- that ungainly- that stupid _Wendy_. She was a light in his darkness, the one creature he could always count on. She let him fly.

Streaming ribbons of light like a comet, she raced the leaves in the wind and twisted erratically in the fading dusk sun. The scent of rain flavored the next gust of wind, and she paused in her display to taste it. It was strong. Must be a storm coming.

Tink fluffed her pixie dust and let herself fall, folding her wings and closing her eyes. She plummeted like a stone, and it was in moments like these that she was truly conscious of her gift of flight.

Somewhere below her, she could hear a lost boy begin to make a ruckus as he watched her descent, but she perked only a few feet before the tree line and disappeared into the foliage.

Let them think her injured, or broken. It wouldn't kill them to think of someone else for a change, and it wasn't like Pan would care anyway.  
Her light threw a globe of warm yellow on the leaves around her, steadier and brighter than a candle flame. A pair of brilliantly plumaged birds raised their heads to her, and they shared moment of curious silence.

Tink liked her life here. She liked the freedom, and she liked the beauty of the endless green and the deep blue sea. She liked the lost boys, because they made her laugh. And most of all, she liked Peter. Peter with the gleaming blue eyes and the air of trouble and the smile that made the sun shine. He was her light in the darkness, too. But now he had that WENDY. SHE could fly, and SHE could talk, and SHE had decided to leave. Who could be so stupid? To leave this place, of wild, unbridled beauty and flight and eternal youth? To leave _him_?  
But she had. And now, all he wanted to do was pine.

Tink was too small to feel more than one thing at a time, and right now, her fury faded to rejection. He didn't want to go tease the mermaids, or slash leaks in the Jolly Roger, or show her his scars or anything fun like that. He WANTED to go find Wendy and curl up with her, and listen to her stories, and play with her almond-colored hair. Except that he wouldn't admit it.

Rejection transmuted. It became something else; something deeper; something nameless. It was cold and painful, but it also burned her. It was the thing that drove women to spite, that made Queens rule, that was about to make little Tink do something she'd never in a thousand years thought to do before.  
Pan didn't want her. Fine. She didn't want him. She'd been alone before he came, and she'd be alone after he left. She was the only one she could really depend on- not some too-pretty boy with a wild heart and warm golden skin.

The birds were gone in a moment, leaving behind only a dusting of feathers and some noisy squawks. She took a queue from them and bolted straight through the canopy just as a striped little tree-cat landed sharp claws where she'd been. It looked up at her with reflecting yellow eyes and she stuck her tongue out at it.

The moon was in fine form tonight; full and glowing with muted white light. Perhaps later she'd fly up to meet it- she hadn't done that for a long time. Usually she was in bed right now, curled in the leaf-hammock Peter had made for her one night, lined with rabbit fur he himself had caught. But not this night. Tonight she could hear the eerie, sad music issued from his panpipes, and it only hardened her resolve.

She streaked over the sea, watching her own reflection in the shimmery-dark water. She could see sleeping mermaids curled in the depths and outlines of hungry sharks who wouldn't mind a tasty little skybird like her.

Ha ha! she scolded them, darting away from the white waves of water they splashed up at her. Ha ha.

The Jolly Roger was all-aglow tonight, as well. Its square black flag flew merrily from the mast, announcing to all who cared to look that _pirates be here_.

No one noticed the tiny glowing pixie that landed upon one glass window. Inside, Hook and his whining mate...Smatter? Smother? Smeemer? were consulting an oversized map. She had no doubt she knew what they were looking for.

She lifted one tiny hand and pounded on the pane. The incessant tinkling that followed her everywhere caught their attention, so she shook herself violently and brought them both over to the window.  
Hook's mouth was open; he seemed absolutely shocked. Smee looked incredulous.

"Why, hello, little faery. And why are you out on such a cold, blustery night?" the captain asked, as he opened the window. Tinkerbell flitted inside and landed on the map they had been perusing earlier.

Something to show you, she mimed.

Hook and Smee traded glances. "Oh, really?" The captain drawled.


	7. Mowgli

"Manaj!" Mukta called, straightening from the crouch she'd adopted to pick sweetgrasses. "Manaj, look what I have!" But the heifer continued to watch the treeline.  
  
Her usually liquid purpley-brown eyes were wide and frightened, and even her whip-like tail was still. Mukta approached the cow from her left side, humming a lullaby to make her presence known. She couldn't see anything in the direction Manaj watched, but the greenery was thick and opulent on the ground and anything could hide behind the screen of vines draped about the trunks of the trees.  
  
A sweet yowl from behind her, and little Teja came streaking out of her parent's hut like her very tail burned. Smallish and gold, she had graceful thumbprints of black all over her soft, short hide. She took a leap from the ground to Mukta's shoulder and hooked her claws in to keep from overshooting her landing. Mukta yelped in pain and steadied the little jungle cat with her free hand. "Dratted cat!" she hissed between clenched teeth. "You'll scare Manaj with your antics- "  
  
But Teja's golden eyes were locked on the same spot currently engrossing the cow. She was staring with unusual intensity, flicking her silk-thin ears back and forth to gather nearby sounds.  
  
Mukta frowned and focused on the string of vines nearest to her. What was so interesting?  
  
She should probably run back to her father's hut and inform him something hide in the trees behind the village, or find her brothers to care for it. Yes, that was what she should do.  
  
But she didn't. She looked over her free shoulder to search the background for prying eyes, but she found none. "Manaj?" she whispered, holding the fragrant grass beneath the heifer's wet nose. Nothing.  
  
The foliage rustled and Mukta backed away in fear. Her dark eyes flew to the treeline, searching for the distinguishing black-on-flame pattern that would signal a lethal tiger attack, or the small brown shadows cast by troublesome monkeys.  
  
But what caught her attention, moving smoothly like Teja stalking mice, was the glistening bronze skin that shifted from one tree trunk to another. Her eyes strained to make out the form that wore the skin- the streaming shape that wore the brilliant color-  
  
It knelt on a low, wide branch close to the ground. The limbs bent strangely, forward rather than back, and they were oddly long and slender. She could make out the curves of delicate muscles beneath the skin, patterned and dappled in the leaf-cast shade. It shifted again, rolling back on strong haunches, perfectly balanced...  
  
Mukta gasped and stumbled back. Her hands flew to her face, to her veil, and she tucked it around her nose and ears to hide her fear. It was no thin predator- it was a well-built, strongly muscled man.  
  
She turned on her heel back to the village and at the same moment, Manaj wheeled away with her, lowing in distress. Her sudden movement dislodged Teja, who hit the ground spitting. Mukta turned her head to catch the movement that caused the chaos, and found the figure half out of the trees and holding out an elegant, forestalling hand. She froze in mid-step.  
  
It wasn't a man, but a boy. A tall, fierce boy, tight gold skin laced with scars and lean hips covered in wildcat skin. His hair was roughly hewn and inky black, and his face was very handsome- almost beautiful. He paused when she stopped and held up both hands in what must be a peace offering. She waited and watched as he approached her, mind whirling with a storm of questions.  
Why as he dressed so? His wounds were numerous and long-healed, usually four in a row like the bleeding gouges in Mukta's shoulder. Why did he look so ragged? Where was he from? Not HER village- she had never seen him before, and a boy like him would make quite sensation. Why was he reaching for her so? What would he do if she didn't scream and bring fast attention to her location? Was he a criminal?  
  
He was only a short distance away now, and close enough for her to make out tiny details she had missed earlier. His eyes were a very rich brown, like the mahogany wood brought by traders. His fingernails were short and broken; he either bit them or wore them down with prolonged use. He was much taller than her, by at least a head and shoulders; he must outweigh her by at least half her weight. His long arms were extended and almost reached her chin- they, as well as his shoulders, back, and legs, were corded with muscle and very strong. He was most unlike any of the boys from her village. He was better.  
  
His fingertips fell from a breath away from her chin, to the scratches on her bared shoulder. He ran them over the raggedy cuts in her skin and his rough hands were gentle. With his free hand, as slowly as it took, he pulled the veil back from her face.  
  
Once again, Mukta's rosebud mouth and button nose matched her dark, sooty eyes. It pleased him to see her; a dazzling, knee-weakening smile touched his mouth and she swallowed convulsively.  
  
"Who are you?" she whispered. The movement of her lips brushed against his fingers and Mukta realized suddenly how much closer he was now...his rich brown eyes were mesmerizing, hypnotizing...she could feel the heat of his exposed body on her arms, she felt a little overwhelmed by his sheer physical presence around her, his teeth were white and sharp as he smiled again...  
  
And she felt...  
  
"Mukta!"  
  
Mukta jerked away from him and turned back to the village. The boy's hand fell away from her mouth and he dropped his arm from 'round her shoulders.  
  
Her elder brother and one of his friends were running up the path that led to the hut. They carried machetes and they knew how to use them. "Mukta, answer me!"  
  
"Here I am!" she called back to them, pulling her veil over her face again. "By the well. Here."  
  
They both turned and saw her. Her brother's handsome face was twisted with worry.  
  
"Mukta! Are you alright? Manaj came into town but you weren't with her. We thought you were hurt or lost. What happened?" his voice was chiding but his hands were gentle as he inspected Teja's gift on her shoulder.  
  
"I am sorry, elder brother. It was- " she turned back to the boy- but he was gone. Not even so much as a rustling of leaves betrayed his presence in the trees beyond.  
"-a...monkey." she finished lamely. Her brother's friend made a tssking noise and lowered his weapon.  
  
"I am surprised at you, Mukta," he scolded, stepping back as her brother guided her back towards the hut. "I thought you more level-headed than this."  
  
She apologized profusely, wondering inwardly why she didn't tell her brother about the wonderful boy with the colorful skin from the jungle.  
  
When she looked back, she thought perhaps she could still see the flash of those lovely brown eyes from the leaves... 


	8. Robin

"Ready, gentlemen?" Robin whispered. Around him, a variety of white smiles and notched arrows were his only response.  
  
"Shall we, then?"  
  
First, the archers lining the trees by the sides of the roads let loose- sharp shooting, picking off hats and purses and glancing their arrows off of shining silver mail. Nothing lethal. Robin's orders . Horses reared, throwing their riders to the ground and dancing gracefully under heavy tack and bit. One, a leggy chestnut creature with light feathering, flipped over in an attempt to alleviate the pressure his rider put on his mouth. The crunch of bones echoed along the road as the man was crushed beneath hundreds of pounds of horse.  
  
The driver of the carriage managed to get his massive coal-black beasts under control, although they flattened their almond ears against their heads and watched the trees with white-rimmed eyes.  
  
A hooded young man dropped from a branch in the coach's way, landing with his feet under him. He straightened into a bow.  
  
"Noblemen and guards," he punctuated each word clearly, "This is a robbery."  
"Stay to your posts!" the front most guard roared, wheeling his bay to face the boy in the way.  
  
"Robin of the Hood, I presume?" he clipped.  
  
The boy grinned wolfishly and didn't respond. He knew he took a chance by making himself a target; the recklessness of youth had made him volunteer. In the trees to his left, Robin smiled.  
  
"If I may offer you instruction, my Lord. Double up on your horses, for we'll take half of them. You may keep your coach and driver, but any and all valuables you possess will be deposited on exactly that spot in the road-" he pointed, "And we shall conduct a thorough search of your personages after you are done. Drop your weapons," he added to a man in the front who had been squeezing his sword hilt.  
  
"And if we refuse?" the leader asked.  
  
Robin's men stretched their bowstrings to their fullest extent. They didn't notch arrows; simply the sound of dozens of bowstrings being drawn would be enough.  
  
And it was.  
  
The guards looked to the man in the front for direction, for orders. The man studied the ground as he thought, dark eyes furious and sturdy face tight. "We have little enough money- we are in our Lord's employ and he has warned us about carrying valuables into the woods. If you are devious enough to accost the women, only God can stop you."  
  
"Women?"  
  
'Women?' one of Robin's accomplices mouthed to him. Robin shrugged. Apparently he'd been misinformed. Well, it was of little matter mow- it would be tremendously bad form to allow them on their way after this. They would simply do what they had to do.  
  
He gave the signal and half his men dropped onto the road at the guards' sides, himself included. They held out bags, hats, pockets- anything that could be filled with coinage or jewels. Sullen clinks sounded as the bandits moved throughout the company and collected all they had to offer. Robin himself knelt by the fallen horse, deftly unbuckling the bit from the bridle and using his sleeve to wipe the bloody foam from its mouth. He pressed the sensitive pads of his fingers against the gap between the horse's teeth and it opened its mouth reflexively, as he knew it would. A few cuts on the tongue, some sliced gums. One loose tooth- but that would heal, with proper care.  
  
As the men began selecting which horses they would take and which to leave, Robin slit the girth holding the dead man's weight to the horse and backed away, allowing it to throw its weight up. It was a gelding, tall for a sport horse but too thin to be a draft. Robin sheathed his knife and offered a hand, which was examined warily by one long-lashed eye. "Alright, fellow," he murmured, retracting his hand. He'd need some time before he looked to man as anything but a threat, judging by those whip-scars on his flanks.  
  
"Will, take this one!" he ordered, and a slender man with sharp eyes came to collect the fidgety chestnut. "You should take better care of your mounts, you know."  
  
The soldiers grumbled and cast him venomous looks, but he ignored them. His next task was waiting.  
  
He bounded up to the carriage and settled one foot on the step below the door. Directly in his sight, an old, crotchety woman sat glowering at him. He gave her a dazzling smile and extended his bag, letting his eyes linger on her array of rubies and gold rings. Fine lady, this was. "You, sir, are an abomination on us all. A plague upon the country. God will punish you for your sins- "  
  
"Old woman," he cut her off. She could keep on in this strain for hours. He knew she could. "Your peasants starve in their homes. Your fields go untilled because YOU raise the price of grain. Your King is absent because YOUR KIND will not raise his ransom. I fail to see how I commit the crime here."  
That shut her up. Well, if 'indignant spluttering' could constitute 'shut up'. And still, he had a feeling she was more upset about the old woman crack than all his founded accusations.  
  
"Your turn, lady," he said, turning to her companion. He'd been watching her out of the corner of his eye, but she had muffled her face or something, and he hadn't gotten a look-  
  
Ah. She'd lowered her head. A fall of tawny curls obscured her eyes but did nothing to hide her lissome figure or white throat. She had already removed what currency and jewelry she wore and now offered it to him tied in a lavender handkerchief.  
  
Robin ignored it. He lowered his head as well, trying to see her eyes, her face. She caught his action and lowered hers further, and so did he- until she had her head almost in her lap and only his bright eyes could be seen over the rim of the carriage door.  
  
Robin started laughing. He thought he caught a responding snort from the lady, but it might have been her scoffing companion.  
  
"Won't you look upon me, sweet lady? Am I so offending to the eyes? Others have called me good to look at. May I not have your opinion?"  
  
She shook her head in her lap and he almost laughed again.  
He pulled the thick buckskin glove from his hand with his teeth and extended his fingers to her face.  
  
"Don't you TOUCH her!" the hag gasped.  
  
But he had his hand under her chin and her hare-soft curls brushed his wrist. He brought her face up.  
  
All thoughts of laughter died in him. Pure blue eyes peeked up at him, lily-white skin and a rosebud mouth beneath them. She was beautiful. "What's your name?" he whispered.  
  
She recoiled a bit, but not from him. From the blood on his sleeves; a small amount of which had been streaked into her hair. He quickly retracted his hand and fumbled for something clean upon himself to give her. "Your name, right now, or I'm taking you with the horses!" he amended when she said nothing.  
  
Every article on his body was dirty with mud or horsehair.  
  
"Marion, don't you tell him!" the cranky old lady snapped.  
  
Marion touched her forehead at the woman with a look of incredulity. Desisting with his search, Robin could only spread his hands in apology. He took the violet handkerchief she still held out to him by grabbing her wrist and catching the bag when she dropped it.  
  
He gave his loot to a man waiting on the ground. "Fall back." he ordered. The man nodded and went to tell the others.  
  
Robin lowered his mouth to Marion's hand and brushed her knuckles with his lips. "You, I'll see again."  
  
He released her hand and dropped from the carriage door.  
  
"Compatriots, our work is done. Guards- on your way!"  
  
He and the rest of his men scattered back into the safety of the trees, but he couldn't resist one last look into the carriage, at the beautiful Marion (whose maidservant was furiously scrubbing at her hands) peering out of the window.  
  
He blew her a kiss and she smothered a smile.  
  
Robin felt like singing. 


	9. Bambi

The shot tore through his eardrums like white fire. With the elegance of movement only deer possess, the little fawn sprang away across the long grasses. Hundreds of yards away, a hunter's eyes flew from his gun sights and he swore a colorful streak in the air. He hadn't seen the fawn- he'd only seen the long neck and gentle eyes of the doe-  
  
He ran with unparelleled speed, his slender legs taking him out of field and drowning his mottled coat in the equally mottled colors of the forest.  
He didn't listen for the footsteps behind him. He didn't wait for the call that would slow his stride.  
  
He hadn't seen his mother fall.  
  
A little stream trickled before his burning feet, curving to the right. He lowered boxy hooves into the cool water and bleated when the sudden change cramped his ankles. Little Bambi fell heavily into the stream, floundering as awkwardly here as he had on his first trip along the ice. "Mother!" he cried. He knew she would wait patiently by his side, until the pain faded and he could again stand on his own four feet. That was, after all, what mothers were for.  
  
But as he stumbled and scraped himself, he became aware he was alone. No warm body hovered carefully close to him, no soothing voice whispered in his ears as she cleaned his face.  
  
"Mother, I'm over here! Mother!" he cried. She must have bolted the wrong way when they heard the shot of Man. "MOTHER!" Anxiety spelled his tiny body as he lifted his nose, searching the air for some trace of the thicket- his mother's very own scent.  
  
The pain in his legs hadn't faded, but he forced himself up onto the bank and onto his bumbly little feet. She had warned him against being out on his own. It was dangerous, and at least until he weaned, he should stick close to her.  
But he would never be weaned. She would never push him away with her velvet nose, never nuzzle his reproachful face, never explain to him in her low and quiet voice the way these things worked. He was now and forever...alone. Bambi tried to retrace his steps as his fear mounted. He'd run as the crow flies- that is, straight. The smell of sun and grass lead him back along his trail, the meadow where he'd find his mother again. Surely, she lurked just outside its ring, searching for her lost fawn. "Mother, here I am! You don't have to look anymore!" he called. No response.  
  
Something was wrong.  
  
A strange, almost painfully alien scent met his button nose. Nothing he'd ever smelled here in the forest. Nothing that belonged HERE.  
He bounded over to a break in the trees and thrust his head through. The twig brushes caught downy fur and snagged his great, wobbling ears- but it didn't matter if he got caught. It didn't matter because-  
  
"WHERE ARE YOU TAKING MY MOTHER?!" Bambi screamed.  
He knew instantly that these were Men, and that they'd done something awful. They held long sticks that smelled like fire on the breeze, and they laughed as they hoisted the freshly dead doe for photos. Seeing his mother so still...seeing her beautiful, warm fur splattered with blood and beer from the cans they held- the same fur that had warmed his tiny body for as long as he could remember-  
  
"STOP IT!" the tiny fawn shrieked. Hysteria rose in his throat and he thrashed his way free from the bushes. He flew a few feet into the sun drenched meadow, only to be repelled by conditioning ingrained in him since birth.  
  
Be careful of the meadow, his mother had cautioned him. Be wary of Man. Was this what he should be wary of? Of Men who came to take his mother away? To load her into the bed of a truck as her cooling body was sniffed and snorted over by little black wolves.  
"Please- PLEASE!" He danced in and out of the woods, out of his mind. Where were they taking her?! He couldn't live without his mother! What would he do, where would he go, he was cold and hurt and hungry and he needed his mother- "MOTHER!"  
  
The hunters heard him and looked up from their congratulating each other. They watched a fleet streak of brown dash a step to their truck and yank back as surely as if he were tied with a rope. They heard him cry.  
"Goddamit, Klete, you hit one w' a fawn!" Angus sighed. The little baby's mindless calls were heartbreaking.  
  
"Don' matter none now. You want me to pick 'im off, too? Faster death, this way- "  
  
Bambi knew when instinctively what it meant when one of the Men swung the barrel at him. He froze. Liquid eyes traced the shell that had been the mother he loved so dearly and returned to the death aimed at his face. He was nothing without his mother. His whole world was now loaded into the bed of a rusty red truck. He lowered his head.  
  
"No!" Angus gasped; smacking the gun away. "You NEVER kill the fawns! I'ma stop huntin' with you, Klete. Yer somethin' weird behind the trigger of a Winchester. You NEVER kill the babies."  
  
Klete shrugged and lowered the rifle. Watching that baby stare down the barrel of the gun had been eerie- bone chilling. He turned his back on the lost little fawn and swung into the seat of the cab.  
"Say bye-bye, mama! Hope your kid tastes as good as you will, someday."  
  
Angus shot Klete a weird look and started the car.  
  
And Bambi could only watched helplessly as his lifeline disappeared out of the meadow.  
  
"Wait..." he mewled. "Please wait...that's my mother..." 


	10. The Djinn

Wishes are everywhere. You wish you'd fit those pants. You wish your boss would leave you alone. You wish you'd made a better decision yesterday when you were talking to that girl.  
  
You wish when you go under bridges. You wish upon a falling star. You wish when you throw a coin into a fountain. You wish when you blow out the candles on your birthday cake. But seemingly, no matter how many wishes you make, they never come true.  
  
But at that very moment, unbeknownst to most everyone in the world, the most powerful and terrible wishes of the Grand Vizier Jafar of Agrabah...were about to come VERY true. Three of them, in fact.  
  
Jafar held the gleaming golden lamp up to the firelight, keeping his touch on its surface delicate and light. Wouldn't do to wake the monster before all the preparations were made. It was a simple lamp, no ornamentation or obvious craftsmanship. He could pick up a far nicer one in the bazaar outside the castle for mere pocket change.  
  
But he didn't want a better one. He wanted this one. This was the key...the wish solidified, in gold and smoke and magic...for his desire of the title 'Sultan'. And all that came with it.  
  
Soft, fearful footsteps echoed outside the velvet-draped chambers he stood in. Even muffled, they provided a harsh and unattractive contrast to the presence of the cold, cruel world just outside his sanctuary. "What?" he snapped, even before the footsteps had come to a complete stop. The guard sounded startled. "I- uh- your Grand- "  
  
"WHAT!" Jafar snarled. He was in no mood.  
  
"Th-th-the p-princess J-Jasmine has return-n-ned to her q-quarters, sir." The Vizier's vicious temper was no secret on palace grounds. In fact, the guard should probably be doing more than simple stuttering.  
  
"Prostrate yourself." he ordered. Though he could not see the guard through the heavy falls of silk and velvet shielding the alcove from the man's presence, the slap of his palms hitting the marble was satisfying enough. "And has her ugly beast been contained?"  
  
"Y-yes, sir. Rajah now presides with the rest of the tigers in the Sultan's royal menagerie."  
  
"Remove it. I want the damn thing in a cage. A SMALL cage, with no water. You understand?"  
  
"Yes, sir." His voice was barely above a whisper. He dared not disobey his master.  
  
"Leave." Jafar's voice had returned to its natural nasal hum; like the beat of an insect's wings drenched in oil. "On your hands on knees."  
He did not wait to here the man recede. He turned back to the lamp, cradled gently in the curve of his left arm.  
  
Savor this, he cautioned himself. Enjoy this feeling. This will bring you the world...on a platter.  
  
More delicate than even a lover's caress (for Jafar had nothing in his heart that would prompt care for a lover) he rubbed the sensitive heel of his palm against the shining, gleaming spout of the lamp. And he WISHED.  
  
Time had no relevance inside the lamp. It was how the Djinn had managed to survive all those years buried in an insufferable pile of gold beneath the sands of a changing desert tide. To him, it could have been a moment; it could have been a thousand years. It had been the latter.  
  
Now, in his sickly black fury and the choking hopelessness that seemed to define every wisp of magic in his being, he was again being called to serve a master who cared nothing for him in return. He had thought, however briefly, that he had found a friend in Aladdin. His disappointment seemed to darken every glowing crevice in the Djinn's soul. Now at least, he knew better.  
  
But time had no relevance...inside the lamp. It could have been days since he'd last been called. It could be moments. It could be eons; he could have been buried beneath the sand again as the world changed and life changed- even though people never would.  
  
In his current temper, he HOPED it was the latter.  
Aladdin's choice had taken the heart out of him.  
  
The mist he called obscured his surroundings for the briefest of moments. It- seemed as though- he was in some kind of darkened boudoir. Draped with black and wine velvet, gilded everything, sensuous incense burning on rare wood tables.  
  
There was nothing of Aladdin in this room. No place he'd seem to fit LESS. Was it true? Had he been dormant in the lamp long enough for lives to fade? Would his new master carry the same hot blood his old master had carried- father-to-son, father-to-son?  
  
"Who calls me?" the Djinn demanded, whipping up a cool breeze to dispel the idiot fog faster. He seemed less demanding and impressive than his usual entrance, more shrill and expectant. He sounded...scared.  
  
"I do."  
  
He whirled. A shape behind him, darker than the shadows themselves, stepped into the ring of blue light he cast.  
  
It was Jafar.  
  
In that very moment, the despair and the betrayal swamping the Djinn's cold heart were so great he WISHED...that he could die.  
  
And that is a very powerful wish. 


	11. Artur

Artur gangled his way back down the path to the village. His brother would whip him for taking his sweet time at such an important moment, but he couldn't bring himself to care.  
  
Second son. Second in standing. Always second in his own father's eyes- compounded by his elder brother's glory.  
  
He wished there was something he could do. He wished there was a way to change his fate.  
  
He lay awake at night and cursed this muddy little place; its chickens in the street and the way the sky never seemed more colorful than gray. When he slept he dreamt of dragons and gold and great black horses with hearts of flame. He dreamt someday he would be great, and someday he would surround himself with greater still. And when the morning's bitter light finally crept between his shuttered lids, he consoled himself with these dreams and he told himself: someday. Someday.  
  
But none of his fancies could change the cold reality of raindrops on his face and the fleeing time beating in his ears.  
  
"A sword," he muttered. "I must bring my brother a sword."  
As he left the forest path, the hard-packed dirt beneath his boots became the half-frozen mud of the village road. He slipped and stumbled in the pocks left by plow horses' round hooves; he picked up his pace over the uneven terrain so as to provide the illusion he had hurried.  
He had to get a sword.  
  
His father's scrappy hut stood close to the middle of town, surrounded by similar homes of rough-hewn timber and mud packed into the cracks for warmth. His hands were red and chapped with cold when he extended them to the task of opening the frontmost door to his home.  
  
No one was home; that was hardly surprising. The place was fairly deserted altogether, as most everyone had left to watch the tournament placing so close to their out-of-the-way little village in nowhere-land. As he collected one rusting sword from the leather scabbard slung across the kitchen's only chair, Artur eyed the fur-lined blankets gracing his brother's cot. They made kingly blankets compared to the bed of straw before the hearth that was Artur's given place of rest.  
But his father had every right to discriminate. After all, his brother was- he was regal; tall and golden, strong of arm and sharp of eye. Artur would now; he heard it often enough from the village maids and the old crony spinsters. God willing, his brother could become a KNIGHT! And what was he? He was a rangy, unfinished bit of a boy, with unkempt brown hair and features that could grow as ugly as they could handsome. His manners were coarse, his speech was soft and his eyes were always dreamy. Often subjected to the harsh tongues of the village elders and the gossip of wicked midwives, he alone seemed to know the greatness he was capable- no, destined for.  
  
"'Cause ain't no WAY I'm stayin' here!" Artur whispered. It was a silent promise to himself; heat to his blood and color to his cheeks. His life lay far outside this town's choking boundaries, he felt sure.  
  
There was, literally, NO ONE in sight. He needn't have hurried a'tall. He lugged a sword far too heavy for his thin young bones and as he went, searching the surrounding streets and windows for probing eyes. NO one.  
  
Artur stepped stealthily back into the shadow of the hut, sliding along the wall until he rounded the corner facing the town square.  
  
He had avoided this place for a long time. It was a mocking reminder of his failure, as a man and as a son. At any given point during a normal day, this small opening would be packed with individuals, with men in their prime seeking fame and fortune and a place in history. But so far, every man who had tried- had failed. Miserably. Embarrassingly. Sickeningly.  
  
As he was quite sure he would become, in a scant few moments.  
  
There was no one here.  
  
No one would see him.  
  
Why not?  
  
Why not? asked the oily little voice every human mind possesses. Why not try?  
  
It behooved his humility to know his place, to stay his hand from trying for the greatness promised to any man who could complete the task. But the dreamer in Artur, the wild in his blood, forced his hand.  
  
He dropped the sword he drew, the sword his family at the tournament waited so impatiently for. And he reached for the hilt of the Sword in the Stone. He exchanged one for another, his brother's weapon for his-  
  
His past- for his future-  
  
His hand closed about the cool golden hilt protruding from the rock embedded so immovably in the dirt of the Town's Square.  
  
And his whole life changed, in the blink of an eye.  
  
Hello, it said. Hello, wielder.  
  
It slid so freely from the stone it could well have been butter-soft leather.  
  
The sheen its blade bore was combated only by the sheen in the young King's eyes...  
  
Reflected in the sword, he saw his fate. He saw his wife. He saw his son. He saw his death. This sword had magic about it.  
  
Artur turned back to the town, the instrument of his destiny still held aloft between his clumsy hands.  
  
And saw his father, who'd followed him back to the village to berate him for his dawdling- fall to his knees. What he saw in the man's eyes did much to soothe the years-old hurt inside of him.  
  
"Father," he breathed. "I have to go."  
  
And from the trees, a white-haired man on a white-coated horse smiled with white, white teeth, and congratulated old Excalibur on his choice. 


	12. Rose Red

Snow White...was beautiful beyond belief; pale as snow, with gleaming black hair and blood-red lips the lusciousness of which any poisoned apple would tremble to feel.  
  
Snow White...was kind, serene, and sweet enough to lure the fawn, the bluebird, and the tightly-strung red fox to her hand with little more than a melodious strain of tune.

Snow White...was perfect. And tragic. And now....so well-loved.  
  
Rose Red was none of those things.  
  
Sisters they may be, but stranger things have happened than bearing one child cool as ice and a second wild as a breeze-fanned forest fire.

Snow White and Rose Red had been happy in their youth, carefree and full of laughter as they chased each other through the sunlight glades and the moss-laden trees near their family's home. Any difference in their countenance or temperament mattered little to them; like kittens with odd-matching stripes they cared for the variety in their base about as much as a handful of grain would to a hummingbird.  
  
Doe-shy Snow White WAS inclined to hang back in the shadows while her impetuous sister did what she pleased...that much was true. But it was also true that the tongues of neighboring housewives were never so sharp as they were when touched upon the topic of star-bright Rose Red...and never so kind as when they spoke of her cream-pale younger sister.  
  
As age approached and both girls blossomed into the literal flowers of their womanhood, the contrast between one and the next became more apparent. Snow White preferred the cool lagoons and sunny fields in which wild animals awaited her soft hands and pleasant warbling. Rose Red was soon abandoning her docile sister as soon as they set foot outside the abode, racing alone and unsupervised to steep mountain cliffs or fast-rushing rapids to test the resilience the beat of her heart promised her.  
  
Barbs discarded in youth stung and stuck now, and the gossiping old bags' tongues turned from Rose's uncontrollable behavior to her repulsive titian hair and her boy-slim figure. Perhaps THAT was the reason that began to change her oak-brown eyes to brilliant green that matched the flower bearing her name. No matter what she did, no matter how she tried, stereotypes had been formed and opinions were cemented, and for the rest of her life Rose Red would be the regarded as 'less' than her sister Snow. Less responsible. Less feminine. Less...White.

How does interact with such flagrant favoritism? How can one compare one's self with 'better'? More and more, Rose found herself escaping from the stifling atmosphere of the 'why can't you be more like's and the 'when are you going to learn's, to wander alone and cold through the woods once so happily traversed by TWO little girls, absolutely equal in stature and ability. She met the stone-eyed wolf, and slept beneath a blanket of stars, and held her feet beneath ice-cold rippling moonlight even when she couldn't feel them anymore; singing songs whose verses consisted entirely of 'save me'. It was no longer abnormal to see Snow White's green-eyed sister drifting like a ghost among the willow and the forest birch, thinking thoughts as violent as the scarlet mess of her long, tangled hair.

Was it any wonder, then...when it came time for the fairy tale to be written...that sweet Snow White's bloody-headed sister watched from the edge of the forest as the crystal coffin was laid to rest?  
  
Rose Red HAD to have a place. She was the flaming firebird to her sister's lyrical dove; the brilliance of a ruddy sunset to her sibling's shining clear stars. She was a rose among banks and banks of pure, white snow. Rose HAD to have a place, somewhere. Was it always destined to be...in her sister's shadow?


	13. Basil

Written specifically for the Mouse Avenger. I hope you like it...

* * *

"BASIL!" her shriek was quick and muffled, but it held all the heart-wrenching desperation of a child in trouble. "BASIL!" 

A wisp of pale fur, unnaturally high, climbing higher in the dark emptiness of the tower.

Ratigan.

"Wot- wot- " Basil's assistant hopped a bit, watching uneasily as he pitched himself after the tiny tuft of white that had so consumed his world of late. "Wh-oah! BAS- "

Basil plunged into the darkness of the clock tower, unmindful of the danger to his own form as hers raced among the giant cogs and gears and levers. If even one closed upon his cape-edge or the end-most quarter of his tail...a death most painful, most obscene.

But none did. He moved with animal instinct, fast as the sheets of lightning flashing outside, lunging and scrambling for purchase on the rain-slicked stone surfaces.

Hideous laughter more ominous than the thunderous booms echoed down from above; the sickly sound of Ratigan's twisted pleasure at seeing Basil struggle. Followed quickly by a pained and startled wail from little Olivia-

"Ratigan!" Basil shouted furiously. "You leave her alone, you dirty- you filthy- you PUTRID old RAT!"

Ratigan stiffened mid-step and whirled back to the golden speck that was the mouse below him. "What...did you say?" he squeaked.

"He sed you're a rat!" Olivia gasped, twisting and writhing in feeble attempts to bite him, to hurt him. "You're a fil'ty, turrible RAT!" Her lilt became ever more apparent under such duress, warping her outraged cries near-incomprehensible.

Ratigan turned back to his prey. His face was twisted into ugliness- the face that could murder in cold blood... the face that could contemplate such DEATH, such DESTRUCTION, such TREASON- the face...that could tame a CAT...

"You DARE to call ME...a RAT?" he hissed. His face was most awful, true; but his eyes were like two live coals peering out of it.  
Olivia dropped like a stone.

"'LIVIA!" Basil yelled. He leapt, with monumental effort, using all of his cunning and grace, to save the little life discarded so carelessly between the monstrous clock's iron gears.

If he been even a second later, an inch off, a hair's width in error of his estimation, Olivia's living flame would have been snuffed with the most savage of brutality. But he wasn't. He made his LIVING on such pinpoint assumptions. His shoulder and back hit cold gray cement, flaring with pain and shock; but even the fall's landing could not induce him to loosen his arms around the tiny body he held.  
"Olivia- "

Her button nose peeked out from above his tweed elbow, followed by two bright black eyes. "'Allo, Basil. Ey' shall be o-kay. Are you o-kay?"

Basil relaxed. He rubbed his cheek along cornsilk-soft hairs. "I will be fine, Olivia. I'm glad you're alright." Wasn't it amazing how quickly the Great Mouse Detective could be transformed, simply by the eyes of a child?

"I will be fine," Basil continued softly, "But Ratigan will NOT be." He set the mouselet down on the ground and lurched to his feet once more.

"This is it, you know. This is the end. Tonight, ONE of us must die."  
'Livia's hand tightened imperceptibly around his own, a minute comfort in the cold, dangerous night around them. "And so help me...it will not be me."


	14. Red

Red's cloak was bedraggled with mud and a bit frayed at the edges when the cottage finally shimmered into view.

She didn't remember quite that many briar patches on the way to the old woman's home, or that many shadows falling between the branches of the trees and bushes...or the eerie yips and cries issuing from whatever direction happened to be directly behind her head. More than once she had slowed her pace-- awaited the right moment--and whipped around to catch the entity she KNEW existed, looming over her and bathing her with scents of violence and old blood...only to find herself alone.

The cottage was in aterrible state, with mounds of wildflowers breeding cracks into the river-pebble and mud walls; the was chimney being dragged slowly down by its own weight; and the grungy scum of disuse gathered on the bubbling panes of window glass.

Red stopped, only a few yards from the house. She gripped her basket so hard her knuckles turned white and cracked from the strain. Something was wrong.

As she had walked, drawing ever farther from her own home in the meadows, full of the scent of grass and beams of silent, warm sunlight, foreboding had paved her path and terror had laid breadcrumbs to push her back. The trees had lost their leaves but still the canopy of sticks like bones blocked all but the most watery of sunlight. The chatters of uppity chipmunks had lessened and stopped, as had the burbling of nearby brooks and streams which so comforted gentle Red. She had been commanded not to leave the path, so the causes for the sudden and unnatural death of the surrounding forest would remain ever a mystery to the girl.

"Grandmother?" she called, but her throat would only offer aspen-leaf whispers. "I- I'm afraid..."

Push on. There was nothing to be afraid of. Not the unnatural silence, or the unhealthy tint to the sky, or th-

_crack_

She uttered a shrill little scream that would've set the birds to bolting had there been any. Her brilliant hood whipped to the side as she turned her head; she pulled it down and off of her face to facilitate identification.

"Hello?" she demanded. Her voice, still hoarse with the breaking of age, cracked under pressure. "Who's there?"

Tree trunks blurred, bark shifted, and a lone stag separated from the rest of the forest. His coat was muddy; his whites a dull and ruddy clay; antlers worn raw-short. He was staring at her with one feverishly bright eye, pinning her with what could only be described as the gaze of the less than sane.

"Sir...sir stag?" Red whispered. Something was VERY wrong here-

Alerted by some cue outside the realm of any senses RED possessed, the buck flicked one ear toward the cottage and turned his head, blink-fast. His right eye was an empty hole. Torn out by savage claws and razor sharp teeth which had rent great furrows out of the side of the stag's face. His countenance was so alarming to behold that Red uttered a short cry and stumbled toward the cottage.

The stag turned his remaining eye back to her, watching her descent to the house. He was still. He was silent. He was a warning.

He faded away, just mist on the breeze.

Behind her, the curtains to the cottage flickered briefly before she turned. Burst through the door, slammed the flimsy barrier behind her...and committed herself to her most unfortunate fate.

"Grandmother are you here? Did you see it? Did you see what-- just-- happened...?" She slowed and faltered, then fell to an awkward stop. Her grandmother's cottage was a massacre. Drapes and clothing were skewed about the floor; a fire that had burned itself to death lay dormant around the fireplace; hanging herbs and soup broth had been sprayed about theground and there remained, testaments to the crime that had taken place not so long ago.

"Where are you?" Red breathed. She should run. She should get out of the house, abandon her basket of sweets and rolls, fly until she left these horrible dead woods and the evil shadow which held them so in thrall. But she did not.

She stepped forward. "Please-- are you here? What has happened? _Are you alive?"_

No sign ofresponse from even the darkest niche in the darkest corner of the grandmother's home. No signs of LIFE.

Something moved.

Red's head snapped to the left, to the ravaged straw-stuffed mattress that groaned in pain as its contents shifted about.

The comforter fell away beneath the movement of the massive figure on the bed...the shadow pressed upon the wall behind poor Red unfolded, lengthened, extended...it turned toward her.

He was monstrous. A mutation of nature, a predator rendered death itself by fangs and claws and tightly hinged jaws.

Even if she ran...there was no where to go. No safety she could reach, no sanctuary this great beast could not puncture. She was dead.

Red ran...and she fell.

And then there was a hellish, timeless agony, followed by a darkness so absolute it could only come after thecessation of life.

No _hunter_ could save her now.

* * *

(I know this isn't Disney but inspiration hit and punched a hole in my skull so I gave in. Sry. ;.; ) 


	15. Alice

The little blue pill hit the back of her throat and the top of her head at exactly the same moment, and Alice fell un-gently to the floor. 

But the carpet caught her, and broke her fall, stroking her gently from her face to her hips right down to her toes. She licked lips gone dry and opened her eyes at the ceiling. The ceiling smiled.

Two men on a sofa rapidly growing music notes were musing over a flame and a pipe, and they were doing it so quietly Alice almost cried. Their noises were so BRIGHT...

Gary's cat Simon sidled up to her face and gave her a rough lick on her forehead. His tongue felt like wine, grape wine, swirling on the top like oil rainbows and slicks of black with sea birds and white whales suffocating underneath. "You know," he said, "You really shouldn't be messing with that shit."

Alice gasped and rolled away, tucking her head below her arms and gripping the soft blond hair at the nape of her neck. "Go away!" she gasped, but she wasn't speaking his language. She was speaking in Sentential, and her words fell from her mouth as heavy and gritty as figures on paper. They became 'and, or' and 'if and only if' and suddenly everything she said became a completely logical lie. "PLEASE!"

There was a pair of dead flies on the windowsill above her head. The cool evening breeze ruffled their wings and sucked them back against the closed window as it receded like the tide below the jealous, sullen moon.

"Thank you so much for those who are helping me," the first fly said, rolling across the raindrop-stained wood like a dried-out corn husk. "Fuck you to those who are making it worse."

His brother stared at her with a million tiny eyes that each saw a different station on the radio waves. Then he melted. Alice watched his body transform into just as many points of colored light; red like the blood you could see pumping through the cornflower-blue veins in your wrists, orange like the sparks those made-for-lighting logs made as you lit them, yellow and green like the sickly Northern Lights you couldn't see in the city on the rooftops at night and below the tainted window glass that covered EVERYTHING. Purple and blue erupted from him like spits of bi-colored lava from some fantastic Lisa Frank inferno, spewing every-color shapes like phoenix wings all over that sorry wooden sill.

Gary and Guy leaned back against the couch as their own toys claimed their brains. Gary's stupid match kissed the floor and it was all over.

Neither saw Alice jerk to her bony knees and stumble clumsily away. Her hair fell in her face like spider silk and clung to her eyelashes and salty wet tears. She was no longer in Gary's basement; there were no fucked over teens fumbling with their clothes on the floor; what she stepped in wasn't vomit and beer. Every time she closed her eyes like turning the channels while blinking, a new section of the sad brown basement had changed. Suddenly the garish yellow lights were clean white ceilings washed blue by shadows and the light of the moon...her feet hit cool slick tile and the bathroom opened up to a luxurious NYC loft with black and white furniture and deviantART prints on the walls.

"You're going to DIE!" the man with the dusty background said, and then he laughed. She felt his horrid laughter on her face like burning. But she couldn't get away. This- you could _never_ get away. Don't look back; you can never look back. "Please- " little Alice whispered, tucking herself between the oven and the lazy susan both painted shark's-eye black. "I didn't mean to do this. I didn't mean to come here. Please. Can you help me get home?"

Simon's chestnut fur stuck out in the dream like school on Saturday: with no class. His teeth were HUGE, and Alice became afraid. "Now, Alice, that is just NOT true. You chose the blue pill and you chose to take this chance. You must be held accountable," and as he spoke, Alice in her terror reached out and smeared his colors from the frame, "For your actions. This is you, Alice. This is how you've _chosen_ to _do_ it." Last to fade were his sharp white teeth, which edged closer and closer to the girl on the floor as she tried to melt back into the counter. "Have you ever tried to describe a color, Alice? Tell me what red is."

The cool silence of the loft was drifting away from her, sifting through a vortex in the middle of the room. Like an inverted vacuum with the plugs pulled out and dangling at its sides, the more contentment it sucked the more heat and smoke it spewed. Suddenly her vision warped, terrifyingly: the black-glass cabinets became sickly yellow orange paint; the unlit deco lamps suspended from the ceiling became unshaded 60-watt lightbulbs; the giant picture window through which she surveyed the entire city skyline all black and neon and coldly defiant...became a spit-streaked mirror that slapped her eyes with her own sad face. Tangled blond hair. Running black eyeliner. Such an ugly, dirty blue dress...

But that changed in an instant, too; so entirely was that reality gone that for a moment she wondered if she had ever REALLY been there at all. A small blue butterfly, painted in shades from A-flat to D-sharp, floated on her breath. "I reject your reality, and substitute my own." he said. For a moment he strobed, flashing blue and red in a pattern that should mean, 'run, get out!' but Alice stumbled back from it and lost herself in the shadows of her own mind.

"Why are you running?"

The girl was sitting on the ground, surrounded by hundreds of pens and pencils of every color, texture, and consistency. Strips and sheets of paper cast aside showed beautiful and lithe young men with golden skin and jewel-toned hair. "Are you Alice?" Alice whispered.

She shook her head silently and spat on the piece of paper nearest to her. Another incredible boy bloomed, one so fine she was hard pressed to tear her eyes away.

"Don't bother me," the girl said. Her eyes and hair were pitch colored, and her face was cruel. "Stop your running and leave me alone."

"You can come with me!" Her unforeseen companion cried. Alice whirled and flinched. Fantas's twin, Reality, was portly and gleeful; almost retardedly gleeful. He tried to grab one of her hands but she was too little and he was much too big. Instead of her hand he grabbed her chest- and he _squeezed_. She fought for breath, fought to breathe, fought to scream-

Oh, god, his hand was so hot-

* * *

Outside, blazingly red trucks screamed their fury and rattled the neighbors' windows. Little men with big hoses scurried like ants around the lawn and in and out of the blazing building, half-carrying badly burned and sooty teenagers. Not one coherent word could be spoken from any mouth fresh from the burning house. Muttered phrases, like 'psychedelic' and 'thiz'z a bad batch, Murray- it hurtzz-' abounded the grounds, but most were so far gone they could only laugh. They laughed at the sweet, cold night air and the deadly demons only they could see, flapping around in the sky above them; they laughed at all the people gathered just outside the police lines, though most of THEM were crying. They laughed at their parents, and their friends' parents, and at Alice's parents, who were on their knees beside a police cruiser and begging God that each new victim pulled from the inferno was their daughter's body.

But it wasn't Alice. It couldn't be Alice. It would _never_ be Alice.

Because Alice was on her knees in the downstairs bathroom, pounding on a door that wasn't locked and burning her hands each time she touched it. Alice was in Wonderland- and she'd never leave again.


	16. Lion Prince

Simba the lion cub had been introduced to violence at an age when even a lion cub should be innocent. He had watched in mute horror as a beast made of a thousand smaller beasts swallowed his father up and shredded Simba's future with dull horn hooves. He had curled up against the mangled body of the most important thing in his entire world, and he had begged it not to be dead. But it was.

And he might as well have been, too.

Since then he had lived as a kind of shadow. A caricature of what he could have been; a small strip of the promised swath of regal nobility that was his birthright. He loved his surrogate family with a passion he had only ever shown his real family, odd and obscene as it may have seemed. After all, a lion curling up with a boar? But he had, at night, when the nightmares became too real and the cold that should have been nipped away by his mother's soft fur became too oppressive. He had defied nature, and nurture, and the unbreakable laws of the Serengeti itself; and he had submitted to being comforted by his lowly but loving brothers as evening's shadows grew long and thin.

But after the dusk, when the sun turned his face away and the clouds shuddered beneath the weight of the darkness, his mind had always wandered back to the past. To the 'I could have's and the 'Why didn't I's, and the 'Why has this happened to me?'s. When he dreamed, he dreamed of his father's face, and his mother's voice, and the feel of a stranger's hands as he cried 'Behold, here, the one that shall rule you all!'

He dreamt of all the things he could have had but didn't, because of one evil...

blackened...

heart.

"You stole them from me!" Simba roared. The words splattered upon the ground like drops of blood, stuck there between him and his enemy; a wound too grave to heal.

When he had left, he was barely a paw wide and fragile around the ribcage; weak as only a kitten can be.

Now he stood head and shoulders above Scar, magnificent, the grandest achievement of a king who would never know it. He was an adult, and he was wronged, and all he wanted was Scar's neck between his teeth. Never before had he felt such a raging violence, such desire to spill life's blood. But retribution had to found, and so help him, he would _find_ it. "When I look at you," Simba grated, ripping the words from his heart and forcing them past his throat, "I see you as you looked the day you killed my father.

"When I hear your voice, I hear the earth trembling beneath the wildebeest's feet." His muscles rippled like watered silk beneath his fur. His shoulder blades jutted from his back as he circled his rival, becoming more and more pronounced as he lowered his body to the ground. The lionesses were behind him somewhere, antagonizing the jackals' insane cracking laughter.

"But when I open your hide, when I taste your blood on my teeth and my claws, and shake it out of my eyes, it will not be for my FATHER. After I crush your spine between my jaws and leave your body to rot in the elephant's graveyard, I will cry, 'This is for me...for the man I could have been. The man I could have been, _and won't be_.'" It was becoming more and more difficult to speak as his lips receded off teeth unworn by anything but insects. Another humiliation he could add to Scar's tally.

Scar was still. He watched the Lion Prince circle him with one ever-roving eye, muscles strung tight and ears against his skull. He was not what he had been, in the prime of his life. He didn't know if he still had what it took to put this pup down again, and the thought of losing the power he had committed so much evil for made his ruddy fur darken with sweat. The jackals would help him, but the jackals weren't _here_.

"What are you waiting for?" Simba echoed, slurred through his fangs. "Fight me!"

He feinted in, gouging inches of dirt from the ground to Scar's left. Scar remained unmoving. If he could get a clear shot, he'd go for an eye or an unprotected back. Above them, the sky rumbled throaty disdain.

"FIGHT ME!" Simba raged, swiping distended claws at Scar's remaining eye. He was fast.

"Simba!" Nala cried behind them, but her voice was lost below thunder.

"_FIGHT ME!_" he roared, and this time, he lunged for a kill.

Scar attacked.


	17. The Ugly Duckling

The first answer to the first question about the first thing Duckling could remember asking about was: "Because you're ugly."

When Duckling grew older, he remembered more and more. He remembered all the questions he could ask and all the answers he received, but HE had many and THEY were all the same.

"Why doesn't my mother love me?"

"Because you're ugly."

"Why don't my brothers love me?"

"Because you're ugly."

"Why am I always so alone?"

"Because you're ugly."

All the most important questions he could ask had the same answer. The same thing. The same plague, the same curse.

The day his mother threw him away:

He only had one question to ask; it was a question he had asked a thousand times before and a question he would ask a thousand times again. But the only time it would ever really matter was right now.

"Why don't you love me?" Duckling whispered. If ducks could cry, he would cry. But ducks couldn't cry, and every cell in his ugly, beautiful body screamed with pain because he hadn't the tears to shed it.

His mother didn't look at him the way a mother should. And he hurt. "Because you're ugly," she said simply.

"I- I- I don't try to be," Duckling said. "I try to be good. I try to be beautiful."

"But you aren't. You try and try and try, and the best you ever do is 'ugly'."

"Please don't make me leave," Duckling begged. He crumpled at his mother's feet; he touched her feathers and tucked himself beneath her body, like his beautiful sisters could do. She moved away.

"Please!" Duckling wailed. "I love you! I love you! I love you!" He didn't want to leave. They hated him here, because his feathers were gray and his neck was so stringy and the shape of his beak was all wrong. But his family was the _only thing he had_. He slept outside their circle late at night; he followed them and ate the things they threw away; he chased the sticks and rocks and leaves they finished playing with. He couldn't feel his mother's love but he could see it. It was the only thing he had.

"Duckling, you are wrong. There's something wrong _with you_. You don't belong here, and now you have to leave."

"But this is where I live! This is where my family is! Mother, this is where you are for me!" If, if, if. If only his egg hadn't fallen. If only he had a real mother, one to whom he _was_ beautiful. He could have been ordinary. He could have been regular. He could have been perfect. But now he was 'wrong'. Fate is a great and terrible woman, and she takes such joy in changes most profound when for the worse. "You made me," Duckling gasped. He was in so much pain, and if he wasn't so very ugly his mother would cry with pain to see him. "You grew me. You birthed me. My egg was part of you. You _made_ me."

"I unmake you. I don't want you. I reject you," said his mother, because she was simple and normal and she had never known what he knew now. She didn't know how this hurt. She wouldn't care.

How can parents be so cruel?

Duckling laid his body down upon the ground, stretched his graceless neck upon the ground, and spread his floppy wings upon the ground. Fox, take me, he thought. Hawk, take me. Take me, wolf. Take my guts and my throat and my life. Come and take away my pain. "I am part of you, my mother," he keened.

"You are nothing," she said. She was beautiful, for a duck. She had shiny green feathers and a bill as flat as river stones. Her children were beautiful. It was so important to be beautiful. She turned to go.

Duckling sprang to his feet and scrambled for her; she of hatred and of cruelty; she who was all he had left. His mother turned and bit him. Duckling screamed, but even the noise was ugly. A man would hear a funny honking noise, and he would laugh. But Duckling was screaming.

"YOU MADE ME!" Duckling screamed. "YOU RUINED ME! _LOOK WHAT YOU'VE DONE TO ME!_" He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, because he was just a baby and babies don't know what else to do. Alone now and in so, so much pain, Duckling raked at his body with his claws and bit his legs and wings until blood came. The pain inside him became the pain without, and after a while, he was empty. Now was the time a _mother_ would find him again, croon in his ears, warm his tiny body with her touch.

And yet he was alone.

"Why can't I be beautiful?" Duckling whispered, and his little voice was hoarse. A man would laugh to hear.

_If I was beautiful, they would love me. If I was beautiful, I would be loved. If I was beautiful, they'd all gather around me, and touch me like I want to be touched. With LOVE. _

In months, when the cold snows touched his body so alone; in months and months, when the new spring life burst into view around him and screamed inside his eyes with colors that made him weep to see; in months and months and many, many months; he would look again into the water's shining surface and what he saw would be so incredibly amazing. So. Incredibly. Amazing.

Some people think now that the beautiful swan left to find his own people, and the mother whose nest fate had laughed when she stole him from. This is not true. Swan was the Duckling. The Duckling was Swan. Why would a duck go to live with the swans? Duck stayed.

He was very lovely. He was very graceful. He was very sweet.

But after that, there was no happy ending. He was always, only, ever, a tragedy.

His questions were gone, but his words were the same

And the only thing he ever had to say again...wasn't anything to say at all:

_Thank God I turned out beautiful._


	18. Mu Lan

"May I join you?"

Suddenly her heart pounded ten beats at once, piling them up on her ears and her fingertips, behind her eyes and in her mouth. It took a moment to get them all sorted out and on their way; all the blood to be flowed and all the veins to relax after the rush that left her stupid and speechless.

"You are alone," Shang specified. "May I bathe with you?"

After making sure her heart hadn't attacked her, Mulan's next order of business was making sure her brain didn't leak all of her thoughts out through her mouth. 'I'm naked', 'He will be naked', 'We're alone', 'How do I get out', and 'How do I say _no_' made a marshmallow pile on her tongue. She began to shiver as the frigid night marshwater swirled around her superheated body.

_Oh, my God. _

"Um," she said, coughed once, and tried again: "Uh, I was just getting out."

"You are not," Shang said, and in the darkness she couldn't tell if it was an observation or an order.

Mulan kicked farther away from the shore, wild in mind but silent in body.

"I appreciate your deference to my position, but it doesn't have to extend over every minute I'm in your presence. I am your leader, but I am also your brother. We will fight together, under the same flag. Don't cower _all_ the time."

What a diplomatic thing to say. As always. When _didn't_ he know what to say?

Sometimes he seemed so perfect he couldn't be human. He was brave, and serious, and loyal, and never-say-die. Mulan often wondered if his back ever hurt, or if he swore at his superiors, or how he lost his teeth as a child. Thinking of the Great Li Shang indulging in something as lurid as lovemaking was a near-intolerable concept. That was the kind of concept she sometimes forced herself to think of at night. She enjoyed it so much it _hurt_--was that even possible?

She slunk so low in the water that only her eyes remained clear. She held her breath for as long as she could, and said nothing. This was a disaster.

Shang eyed her for a moment, but said nothing else. He turned his profile to her and pulled the shell of his armor over his head, with his hands on the nape of its neck. God. He was such a _man_. Even the way he took off his clothes was so manly.

Khan had been cropping grass near the lip of the lake, flicking his ears lazily around. Bugs were bothering him in the balmy country night, but he was content for the moment. When Shang's armor thunked on the ground his silken neck flashed in the moonlight; he raised his head to see who was there with his mistress. After a moment his liquid eyes eased and he resumed his mild grazing.

_Traitor_, Mulan thought.

"I didn't seek you out tonight, Ping, but I'm glad I found you. I want to talk to you." Shang began unlacing his shirt. His fingers were quick and sure. The muscles of his shoulders were exposed, followed quickly by his stomach and back.

_Oh, God. _

"When you first came to camp, I didn't have much hope for you. This is true of both you and your platoon. And to begin with, you validated my fears." He draped his shirt over his armor and bent slightly to unhook his calf and shin armor. No part of him was not lined with bulging muscle. No unevenness marred his golden skin. Was this what 'desire' felt like?

"I have since re-evaluated my opinion of you. Whatever change took over you, it was a change for the better. While I'd hesitate to say you are the best soldier in your squadron, I will admit that you've come the longest way."

Mulan realized suddenly that she was staring. She couldn't help it. His body was like a feast for the eyes. She'd seen men's bodies before, mostly since she came to the army. They wandered around naked or in various states of undress; they belched and hooted and complained loudly of disgusting things. She had never, ever seen Shang like that. He stayed dressed and civil every moment she laid eyes on him. She wanted to touch his chest, and run her fingers over the ripples in his stomach. She wanted to do things her ancestors were ashamed she would even think about.

"I know my style of _leadership_ hasn't changed, so the change must have been brought about by something extracurricular. Your example heralded one of many. If you would, I'd like you to explain to me what happened."

Maybe he wasn't looking at her, maybe he was. His eyes were as black as Khan's hide, and Khan's hide was so black Mulan sometimes tried to buff out the ink she was sure someone had spilled on him. Had she just seen his amazing eyes flick to the corner, watching her watch him? Maybe not.

His elegant hands went to his drawstring, and Mulan spun around.

_Don't turn your back_

_Have to_

"I," she said, fighting a battle in her mind a _hundred_ times harder than the one she'd fight with the Huns. Surely this fear and this panic couldn't get any worse. Surely _this_ could be the strongest proof these emotions came bottled in. 'You can't see him, you should be more careful' 'He just asked you a question' 'You haven't got an answer that makes sense' and 'MY GOD, YOU HAVE TO GET OUT OF THE POOL' began to lay bricks in an even pile at the gates to her mind. "I...I guess I just sort of...clicked," she said. Ping's voice came out, and it still and always sounded stupid. She was a girl playing a boy. And she was naked in water with a fully-grown man.

"Why have you turned around?" Shang asked.

Hoooowee. Would his legs and calves be as laden with muscle as his shoulders and arms were? He could run for miles; ride for days; break ribs with his kicks. She herself had often felt a part of her bearing the impact of one of his limbs.

_Oh, they would be ashamed. _

"I wish to respect your privacy," Mulan said, then scrunched up her face. That was an answer Mulan would give. It was a timid girl's answer. Shang saw the men parade around with their balls hanging out just as well as she did. Men didn't pick up on these kinds of things.

"You are strange, Ping," Shang said. Oh, that wasn't good.

There was a liquid sound that would normally be gentle and comforting. Water swirling up to meet his feet and legs, lapping gently with adulation as he waded deeper. Mulan kicked with one leg and turned around again. Shang was up to his waist in cold water, covering all the parts she wanted and didn't want to see. He stopped. His face was hard, but it was always hard. His eyes were glittering, but that was the moonlight. Was this some kind of weird dominance thing men did with each other? Of course he was glorious, looking awfully fine in a way that would make any matchmaker drool and wag her butt. Nothing about him wasn't perfect. Like he wasn't _real_. He was technically 'bathing' right now--and still his muscles didn't lose that definition.

He was raised as a prince, Mulan thought. You were raised as a bumpkin. There are so many worlds between you. Even if he knew you were a girl...you're leagues beneath him.

The silence lengthened. This was not good. There was tension here that shouldn't be here. She knew she wasn't looking at him like a soldier should look at his commander, and she couldn't be sure he wouldn't figure that out. She couldn't be sure of his experience with women, of his experience with the way women looked at him--the way she must be looking at him. The lake was as still as glass. If she bent her head she could see her own reflection; her features would be small and smooth and goofy, as a boy's. Large eyes, round shoulders, long hair unbound in the water and swirling around like lines of calligraphy...

She needed someone. She needed someone right now like a savior from the spirits of her ancestors, someone to hop up and down and break the spell and say 'Fo Godssakes, child, get yo skinny ass out the water and bring your not-a-boy's body back to yo tent before I crisp that little white ass. What chyoo _thinkin_?'

_Ancestors, I am here to honor you_, she thought. _Consider this a prayer. I have come to save your son's life; to spare my father the pain of serving his country again when the first time nearly killed him. Please, save me from disgrace. Help me get out of the water._ Before I jump into Shang's arms.

Khan's small ears stopped flicking and zeroed in on something. His neck flew up and his fiery nostrils flared. Shang's head turned in the same direction, for whatever reason, tracking something Mulan couldn't catch.

_He should take his hair down_, she thought, even though she didn't mean to. The bricklayer seemed to take malicious delight in laying bricks that appalled her. Visions of his hair sheeting sharp black rivers around his face. Practicing archery bare-chested, covered in a sheen of delicious perspiration. The way his eyes would burn as he abandoned himself to the forfeit of lovemaking. Would he hold her face between his hands as he thrust above her? Oh, ancestors.

_Ohhhh, ancestors. _

Was the water around her boiling?

"HI!" said Chien-po.

Well thank God for Chien-po.

Yao and Ling burst out of the treeline behind the lake, naked as jaybirds with--predictably--their balls swinging wild and free. Yao tried to do some strange leap-frog thing over Khan's hindquarters, and Khan cowkicked hard enough to break bones.

Either Ling couldn't see it was Li Shang in the water with her or Ling was too exuberant to care, but he broke the surface with a shallow dive a few feet to Shang's left. Shang jerked away but still got splashed, and his perfectly gorgeous features twisted into a moue of irritated disgust. His teeth were very white in the semi-darkness.

Mulan made a break for it.

She ducked underwater and kicked hard away. Not for the beach behind Shang and Ling; there was much too much commotion there. Instead she angled to come up behind a large gray boulder that lay soaking in the surf, hoping it would disguise her naked body long enough to grab some cloth nearby.

Khan had been unnerved by the action and again when he lost sight of her. With a neat bound he leapt the knee-high boulder and stood quivering before her on the sand. She touched his velvet muzzle and grabbed a handful of his stiff mane, using it haul herself up and pull her body behind his. When she peeked over his broad, shining back, she spotted Ling, Yao and Chien-po in a bit of an awkward situation with the newly-discovered identity of Li Shang. They were gross parodies of his godly form; half the man he was though some of them 'seemed so much more'. None of them had seen her.

_And thank God for the darkness, too_, she thought.

Khan turned when she turned and they both headed at a quick step for home. Her clothing was hanging on the low branch of a tree and she snagged it as they went by.

Her hands were trembling as she fought to pull the fabric up over her wet skin. Tonight had not gone well. Her simple bath had not gone as planned. Shang would be watching her closer than ever, now, and for many reasons.

She would go back to her sagging tent, bundle herself in her sleep clothes, and go over ever hot inch of Shang's body in her mind while her body throbbed in reminder. And she would enjoy herself. But in the morning...in the morning, she really needed to think about acting with more discretion.

"Oh, Khan," she sighed. "What am I going to _do_?"


End file.
